


Time and Time Again

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Eventual Johnlock, Gen, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock fell, he lived, but the man known as Sherlock Holmes died.<br/>When Sherlock died, everything that was John Watson died as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time and Time Again

**Author's Note:**

> Dialogue in the first half of the chapter is directly from the show.
> 
> I own nothing.

 

** Prologue **  


“Sherlock, are you okay?” John’s voice sounded thin and tinny through Sherlock’s phone.

“John, turn around and walk back the way you came,” Sherlock said, fear making his voice thick as he watched the smaller man rush towards St. Barts. _There must be a sniper, he thought, they’ll never let him get in the building whilst I’m alive._

“No, I’m coming in,” John replied, his voice stubborn.

“Just...” Sherlock started, gulping past the lump in his throat. “Do as I ask, please.”

“Where,” John asked, turning on his heel and walking stiffly back the way he’d come.

Sherlock held back a sob as he watched John march; the soldier again. _Will he ever be the John I’ve known again, or will be be forever the soldier?_  He wondered. “Stop there,” he said when John had walked far enough.

“Sherlock” John said, his voice oddly light.

“Okay, look up. I’m on the roof.” Sherlock glanced down one last time to make sure that everything was in place, then turned his attention back to John.

“Oh, God,” John breathed.

“I-I-I can’t come down so we’ll have to do it like this.” Sherlock stared at john, normally small but now tiny because of distance.

“What’s going on?” John asked, panic slipping into his tone.

“An apology.” Sherlock cut himself off as tears swelled in his eyes. _Pull yourself together. Even if I make it through this, this may very well be the last opportunity I ever have to speak to him. I must preserve every moment._ He took a deep breath before continuing. “It’s all true.”

“What?”

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.” Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to where James Moriarty’s body lay cooling in the weak afternoon light.

John took a long moment to respond. “Why are you saying this?”

“I’m a fake.” Sherlock said, no longer able to hold back his sobs as he gasped into the line.

“Sherlock-”

“The newspapers were right all along.” Sherlock said, cutting him off. “I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.” The tears that had been threatening finally spilled over. _There, I’ve said it. John will be safe after-_ he stopped that train of thought, not wanting to think of what was to come. Not yet.

“Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met-” John’s voice cracked and he broke off. “The first time we met, you knew about my sister, right?”

“Nobody could be that clever,” Sherlock said with a mocking tone. _Please believe me, John. It will be so much easier for you if think I’ve been lying to you the entire time we’ve known one another, if you hate me like everyone else._

“You could.”

John’s simple words shocked Sherlock, and he barked out a bitter laugh as memories flooded him, rushing forward unbidden. Every time John had shown wonderment at even the simplest observation. _He’s not going to believe me,_ he realized. _He knows I'm not a fake. I-I-I need to tip him off somehow, let him know I may come back one day, even if I can't be what I was._ “I researched you.” He hadn’t, John knew he hadn’t. “Before we met I discovered everything I could about you.” _Come on, John. Then how come I didn’t know Harry was your sister? I knew she was a recently divorced drunk, but I thought she was your brother._ “It’s all a magic trick.” _Please, John,_ observe.

“No,” John denied. “Alright, stop it now.” He started towards the hospital.

“No!” Sherlock barked, reaching instinctively toward John. “Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.”

“Alright,” John said, taking the few steps back to where he had been.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?” Panic slipped into Sherlock’s voice. _Even if I make it, the Sherlock Holmes you knew will probably never see the light of day again. It’s not like the police would ever allow me to work cases for them again. Please, John, I don’t want to die alone._

‘Do what?” John asked, his voice thick with fear and unshed tears.

“This phone call, it’s- it’s my note.” Sherlock paused for a moment, trying to at least keep his sobs from being vocal. “That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”

“Leave a note when?”

“Goodbye, John.”

Sherlock rang off and tossed his phone behind him onto the roof for Molly to retrieve later. He took a deep breath checked the placement of the racquetball up his right sleeve, and stepped off the roof.

Falling wasn’t what Sherlock had expected it to be. He knew, intellectually, that it would take very little force to propel him the few feet forward to make a safe landing, but it didn’t keep him from screaming the whole way down. He hit the bags in the back of the laundry lorry he’d been aiming for with a whump. As he rolled down the pile towards the back of the lorry, something _-belt buckle-_ caught on his scalp. He slipped out of the back of the truck when a member of his homeless network dressed as a cyclist was scheduled to knock John over, buying Sherlock a few extra seconds. Hopefully, John had spotted another member of the network laying on the pavement in a coat similar to Sherlock’s.

Sherlock felt dizzy the moment his feet touched the ground and was grateful when members of the homeless network rushed in around him to support some of his weight. He sank thankfully to the ground, settling with the racquetball firmly in the armpit of the arm he was laying on. He rested his head in the pool of blood, _thank you Molly,_ beneath his head. Hands settled on his neck and left wrist as John rose from where the cyclist had knocked him over.

“I’m a doctor, let me though.”

Sherlock held himself very still, not allowing himself the smallest breath or flicker of an eyelash.

“Let me though, please. He’s my friend.”

John gripped Sherlock’s wrist tightly, nowhere near the pulse point, even if the racquetball had left a pulse to feel. Sherlock struggled to keep his eyes steady, to not let them focus when John passed into his field of vision.

When John had been pulled away, Sherlock was moved to a gorney. His last thought, as he dizzily watched the world spin above him and felt the gorney push against the double doors of the ambulance bay, was _Head wounds sure do bleed a lot, don’t they?_

****

*  *  *

****

At the funeral, in front of the media and the lights, John read the words written for him my Mycroft’s assistant. Two days later, Mrs. Hudson went with him to the graveyard and he said the words that mattered.

The door of 221 Baker St. opened with a familiar creak at his touch.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John began, “for coming with me today.”

“Any time, dearie,” Mrs. Hudson replied. “Are you sure you don’t want to come back? The flat’s just the same.”

John shook his head. “No-no. I don’t think I could do that.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, a sad expression crossing her face. “I understand. Call any time, love.”

He hugged her tightly for a long time. “Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson.”

****

John felt numb. It was as though he had poured all of the emotions he’d ever had, ever would have, out at the tombstone.

He stared blankly out the window of his cab as it crossed London’s streets, taking him to the hotel Mycroft had provided. _Why is he being so accommodating, anyway?_ John wondered. _Is he trying to dote on me since he can’t look after Sherlock anymore, or is he trying to make up for betraying him- for serving his own brother up on a silver platter to that_ madman!

John’s vision went red. He closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, and forced his hands to unclench. Slowly, he slipped back into numbness. Numb is good, he thought as the cab pulled up to the hote. He paid the cabbie and made his way up to his room.

As the lights flickered on, John looked around the room. It was lavishly furnished, but pitifully little belonged to him. Only one suitcase, his computer bag, and Sherlock’s phone.

John sat at the desk and lightly ran his fingers over the phone where it rested beside his laptop. _I wonder why Mycroft gave this to me._ John watched his fingers slide comfortingly over the glass for a moment. _Maybe he knew how very little there is holding me in this world, without Sherlock. It may be easy to think of Mycroft as a heartless bastard, but that isn’t necessarily true. Maybe he knew I’d want a piece of_ him, _however small._

John blinked several times before opening his computer. Immediately, an application for Doctors Without Borders appeared on the screen; he’d left it open the past three days, but not filled it out yet. He opened a new tab, navigated to his blog, and stared at the blank box for a new post for a long time before beginning to type.

****

_“Untitled”_

_“He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him.”_

****

Below that, John embedded a video of a news story talking about Sherlock’s jump.

It’s time, John thought as he clicked back over to the application for D.W.B. _I made it through the funeral, and I made it through today._ He ro _se, pulled a pound coin from his pocket and placed it face up on the table. There’s nothing more I can do for him._ He walked to the small safe in the wardrobe, entered the code, _7347_ , removed his Browning, walked back to the desk and set it beside the laptop.

_There is nothing for me out there, at all, without him. There’s nothing to fight for, no one to protect._ John looked back to his computer. _I could be of use, though. I don’t have to let my life be a waste._

John lifted the coin to his lips. _So, heads,_ he looked at the gun, _or tails?_

He flipped the coin high in the air, caught it, and quickly slapped it onto the back of his opposite hand. When he peeked to see the coin, his only thought was _Oh._


End file.
